Target
by Gumnut
Summary: They couldn't hit him, but they could hurt him.


Target  
For Moonbeam, I hope she feels better soon.  
By Gumnut   
8 Jun 2004  
  
It was a cold, wintry night. Although the moon had been eaten by clouds, the lunar disc was still attempting to beat its way through the grey as if determined not to succumb to the season. The sky still rumbled and flickered in the distance as the storm wandered off, the air cleaned in its wake and the pavement washed by rain. Trees, bowed down by water and shaken by the stiff breeze, shook droplets onto whatever lay beneath them.  
  
Consequently he was drenched.  
  
But he didn't care.  
  
His leather jacket was the only water proof item on him and the pants of his hospital scrubs were sodden, his hair plastered to his scalp.  
  
He had run.  
  
Unable to face it any longer, he had run.  
  
Out into the storm, into the rain, across the lawn and into the park. Anything to get away. To deny the existence of the problem. To flee.  
  
Devon, as always, had been cool, calm and collected whilst telling him, only his eyes showing the pain he knew he was causing.  
  
He should be used to this by now. Should be used to death stalking him.  
  
How many people had paid the price? How many had taken the fall that was rightfully his and suffered for it?  
  
Far too many.  
  
Bullets.  
  
Poison.  
  
Death.  
  
All aimed at him because of who he was and what he did.  
  
Even Kitt had paid the price far too many times. The image of the black Trans Am crumpled, mangled, blown up, hurting. The soft whimpers from the voice box pleading to him, to Bonnie, sometimes not understanding why, and always frightened.  
  
Michael Knight.  
  
The target no one could hit.  
  
Only hurt.  
  
He shifted on the soggy grass, leaning back on the rough bark of the tree, intimately aware of the injuries the shattered plate glass window had inflicted on him.   
  
He should've died in that damn desert years ago, and put an end to this before it all started.

-----------------------------

It had been a simple assignment. Prevent the sale of some illegal explosives to an agent supposedly representing some guerilla wannabes from down south.  
  
They had prevented it. No problem. The scum responsible were now rotting in jail.  
  
Unfortunately those scum were related to more scum who were not in jail, and not a little pissed either.  
  
But why did it have to be a shopping centre? Why couldn't they have just shot him from afar, a sniper bullet, clean and simple?  
  
No, they had followed him, and they were good. Undetected, they must have tracked his habits, located the places he regularly visited, and lain in wait.  
  
It had been groceries. A loaf of bread, carton of milk, three tomatoes, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and the pasta that had saved his life.  
  
And a bomb.  
  
They had almost gotten him.  
  
But he had forgotten the list Kitt had printed for him, the type of pasta he needed, and just before entering the store he had turned and taken a step back to allow a mother with a pram through the door.  
  
He had turned.  
  
And the world had exploded.  
  
He had fallen. A wave of heat, pain, and screams washing over him.  
  
The world had blacked out for a moment, only to suddenly return with the sound of turbines beating the air and the frantic calls of his partner. Kitt's shadow fell over him as he pulled up, and Michael realised he had been thrown into the parking lot, the bitumen hard and dry under his fingertips.  
  
A glance in the direction of the shopping centre, and he had stumbled to his feet. Kitt's protests briefly registered on the back of his mind, but his whole focus was on the carnage before him.  
  
The structure still stood, but the front entrance had been blown away. Charred wood and steel, and the tear-like fangs of plate glass hanging from the remnants of shattered windows made the building appear as if it was weeping.  
  
His befuddled brain scanned the area, catching a snapshot of mangled baby carriage, and then he was moving.  
  
What he found turned his stomach and tossed it onto the pavement.  
  
Oh god, no.  
  
No.  
  
His head spun sickeningly, the world blurred, and as his legs folded under him he heard the familiar spin of a turbine engine, and suddenly the soft thrum of black alloy was beneath his cheek. Someone was calling his name.  
  
And then everything went away. 

He had survived. He always did.  
  
He had woken in hospital. Doctors, nurses, friends - his family - around him, reassuring him, telling him everything was going to be all right.  
  
Except it wasn't.  
  
Devon had delayed as long as possible, but Michael had beaten it out of him anyway.  
  
It had been another attempt on the life of Michael Knight.  
  
Again.  
  
This time they had chosen explosives because they thought it was ironic that he should be killed using the very weapons he had prevented them from selling. And they had nearly succeeded.  
  
They were scum. But they were stupid scum. Nowhere near as smart as they thought they were.  
  
Within twenty-four hours the police had traced the explosive, traced them, and now the penitentiary held three more reluctant inmates.  
  
But it didn't change anything.  
  
That little girl and her mother were still dead. Joanne Christabel Jackson, born Jan 5th, barely two months old. Anna Marie Jackson, 23 years of age, married less than two years. How could he ever look her father and her husband in the face?  
  
He dropped his head into his hands, tears welling in his eyes.  
  
Goddamnit.

----------------------

The soft splatter of water on sodden grass slowly gave way to the soft thrum of an engine, and Michael didn't need to look up to know that a sleek black shape was making its way through the trees. He had expected someone to come looking for him sooner or later. Doctors and nurses have a tendency to dislike losing patients to thin air.  
  
"Michael?"  
  
He didn't answer. He didn't want to answer. He just wanted it to all go away.  
  
"Michael, please come inside."  
  
The soft, measured tones of his partner echoed in the dark and spoke of calm sanity. The mere sound of Kitt's voice evoked a feeling of security. But still he didn't answer. He didn't deserve security, he didn't deserve warmth, and he damn well didn't deserve sympathy.  
  
"Bonnie and Devon are worried about you."  
  
"Did they send you after me?" He snarled it, he knew, but the anger inside him, the grief....  
  
"No, I located you myself. They are currently speaking with the hospital staff." There was a pause. "I have told them where you are, but I wished to speak to you first."  
  
Michael didn't want to talk.  
  
He knew what Kitt would say. The platitudes, the gratitude for his survival, the standard statement that the bad guys would get their due, but he just didn't have any taste for it at the moment.  
  
"I'm sorry, Kitt." He stumbled to his feet, bandages stretching, injuries complaining, and a godawful ache in his chest that simply refused to go away. He glanced at the dancing light of his partner's scanner, bouncing back and forth in the dark, before turning and walking off deeper into the park.  
  
Kitt simply followed. 

Kitt wasn't human. It was a fact that he neither regretted or wanted to change. But he was fully capable of empathy, particularly with his driver.  
  
And at the moment, his driver was in a great deal of pain.  
  
His injuries this time around had been shocking. Kitt had been parked at the far end of the parking lot, a busy Saturday morning rush on shopping. He'd been quietly considering his next chess move. Michael had been practising and he was actually starting to become a bit of a challenge to the AI, much to both partners' glee.  
  
He'd completed the usual scans, and everything had been clear, no apparent danger, not that there should be on a casual visit to the shops to buy bread, but Kitt stuck to the pedantic where Michael was concerned.  
  
Even then he hadn't sensed the explosive.  
  
The moment he detected the explosion, the chess program had been tossed from his processor, emergency services contacted, and he was on the move. Dodging cars and distraught pedestrians he found his partner flat on his face in the car park, bleeding all over the bitumen, unconscious.  
  
Glass had shredded him.  
  
He didn't care who saw the talking car, he called out to Michael, desperate to get him inside so he could whisk him off to medical assistance.  
  
But when he had finally woken, Michael had been too dazed to respond, too hurt to do anything but react, despite his obvious intentions of moving to help.  
  
And then he had fallen.  
  
Kitt had scanned repeatedly since, traces of explosive littering the pavement. How could he not have detected the bomb? It was something he had cursed ever since. Regardless of the fact the assassins had known of his capabilities, there should have been a way for him to counteract their tactics.   
  
But there hadn't been, and Michael had collapsed over his hood, smears of red staining the car's paintwork.  
  
And Kitt had been left to watch his driver die.  
  
It wasn't the first time. But that didn't make it any easier. He had trailed the ambulance, his windows darkened to hide the fact he was alone, his frantic calls to Devon and Bonnie enabling them to meet him and Michael at the hospital.  
  
And then the vigil had begun.  
  
Kitt was far too familiar with hospital parking lots. Michael had once joked that perhaps they should hire out a permanent spot.  
  
Kitt had not been amused.  
  
He hated it. Hated the uncertainty. Hated the worry. Hated the vulnerability of his driver, and the chance he may be taken away from him forever.  
  
It hurt.  
  
Not unlike what Michael was feeling now.  
  
The forlorn figure stumbled off into the dark, and Kitt could tell Michael was desperate to be alone. But he couldn't leave him to hurt by himself. The man was barely mobile, injured, and soaked to the bone with rainwater. Kitt had to get him inside and warm as soon as possible before he aggravated his condition.  
  
But he wasn't listening.  
  
"Michael."  
  
A white hand was flung back at him. "Go away Kitt, leave me alone."  
  
"I can't do that, Michael."  
  
A white face turned back at him, grief and anger creating lines that normally weren't there, aging its features. "Why not?"  
  
"Because I need you."  
  
The stumbling figure stopped, breathing heavily, and bent over, his hands falling to his knees as if he needed help to hold himself up. His shoulders shook.  
  
"Michael?"  
  
A glance at the vital signs monitor showed the expected trauma to his driver's systems, but also a stress level near breaking point.  
  
"Michael, please get in the car." Kitt's own voice cracked with worry.  
  
The figure turned to face him, tear tracks mixing with the rainwater dripping from his hair. "Why?"  
  
Kitt didn't answer, because he didn't have one. He knew what Michael was asking, and it had nothing to do with whether or not he should get into the car.  
  
"Why?" The question was repeated, but this time only as a whisper.  
  
Kitt struggled, truly not knowing what to say. He didn't know why. Why a man who tried to nothing but good, received so much pain in return.  
  
"Michael, you did your best." It was a paltry statement, but true nonetheless.  
  
"Well, it wasn't good enough!" The man struggled to voice the emotion ravaging his face. "She was barely two months old, Kitt, she didn't even have a chance!"  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Michael."  
  
The sick man was shaking, his body trembling with cold and grief. Kitt's circuits froze for a microsecond as Michael staggered, his own painful worry for his driver spiking through his systems like hot knife.  
  
"If I hadn't been there, it would never have happened!"  
  
Kitt gave him the only answer he could.

-----------------------

"Michael, the only persons to blame, as always, are the sick bastards who set out to achieve their own gains on the sacrifice of others!" Michael's head shot up and stared at the flickering scanner in front of him. "I watch you on a daily basis risk your life to help people. You've sacrificed more than you should have ever been required to - life, limb, and love. There is no way - no way! - you can be held responsible for what happened to that mother and her child. You are the victim here!"  
  
The silence of the park was only interrupted by the whistling breeze and the remaining water falling from the trees. Michael was unsure whether to be shocked to hear Kitt using an expletive or worried about the fact he had raised his voice. "Kitt?"  
  
Kitt didn't answer for a moment as if realising what he had just said, his scanner flickering erratically. "How many more times do I have to watch you risk your life in an effort to save those who have been wronged by such people? How many times do I have to watch you bleed to death all over my fender?"  
  
Michael's voice stuck in his throat. It was his job, it was what he did.  
  
It was what they did.  
  
The AI didn't give him much of a chance to answer. "Michael, what we do is difficult. You know that, I know that. People die. You can't save everyone, no matter how hard you try. I know it hurts, but please don't help those who wish to harm you by hurting yourself."  
  
Kitt's words spun in his head and left him limp. He felt like falling. "Oh god, Kitt, it is so hard." His voice barely registered on his own hearing, but he knew the AI would pick it up nonetheless. Moments later, his legs gave in, and he began to slide to the ground, exhausted.  
  
Immediately the prow of the Trans Am was under his hands, its warmth and rumbling engine, reassuring. "Please, Michael, get in the car."  
  
"You don't give up do you?"  
  
"Not any more than you."  
  
He could have almost smiled.  
  
Using the hood for support he edged around the car to the open and waiting driver's side door, and bent himself painfully into the bucket seat. Kitt closed the door gently behind him. The soft, familiar surroundings of the Trans Am allowed him to relax a little. Surprisingly Kitt did not immediately drive him back to the hospital so he could be trundled off to his claustrophobic room and its starched sheets.  
  
"Kitt, you okay?"  
  
The voice box flickered briefly. "No."  
  
He looked down at his hands lying in his lap. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It is not your fault."  
  
"I'm sorry anyway."  
  
There was a pause before the AI simply said, "As am I."

---------------------

Silence reigned for a considerable amount of time, yet neither of them made a move to leave.  
  
Kitt monitored his driver and Michael was beginning to relax. He was still wet, but the car's air conditioner was warming him up slowly and the AI found himself suddenly reluctant to return him to the hospital, to let his driver out of his reach, so to speak.   
  
"Kitt, you're not bogged are you?"   
  
The question surprised the AI into realising that he had neither moved nor spoken for the past seven minutes. "Highly unlikely, Michael." He was slightly offended at the thought - as if! The wet ground was saturated, but he was the Knight Two Thousand, he didn't get bogged.  
  
"Okay, just thought I'd check."  
  
"Would you like to go back now?" Kitt's voice was hesitant. "You should change out of those wet clothes."  
  
Michael's voice was strangely content when he answered. "No, I'd like to stay here, if that's okay."  
  
"Okay." And Kitt simply sat back and watched as his driver fell into an exhausted sleep, his scanners monitoring his safety more so than any hospital equipment available.  
  
Because his safety was everything.  
  
Everything.  
  
-------------------  
FIN.


End file.
